


to catch a roast beast

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: picfor1000, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and Ronon return, their grins are broad enough to be clearly visible through the puddlejumper's viewscreen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to catch a roast beast

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cate for betaing! Written for picfor1000 challenge for [this prompt](http://www.flickr.com/photos/toualee/3386459598/).

When John and Ronon return, their grins are broad enough to be clearly visible through the puddlejumper's viewscreen. Teyla long ago learned to find such displays of glee suspicious; following them up to the jumper bay proves her suspicions correct. The jumper's hatch lowers to reveal two beaming men and a _beema_ carcass, newly field-dressed, its six legs pointing straight up in the air. Its great pink tongue lolls out of its mouth—Teyla would not be surprised to find that John and Ronon arranged it so deliberately.

She arches her eyebrows. It's always best to pre-empt the two of them. "I will not help you to skin it."

"Nah," John says brightly. "That's McKay's job."

"I find it hard to believe," Teyla says, standing back as the two men haul out the carcass, "that Rodney would volunteer his assistance with something like this."

"He hasn't," Ronon says, with the smirk of a mischievous younger brother. "Yet."

"This does not seem a very good idea," Teyla says—though she says it to John's back, as he's hurried over to a far corner of the jumper bay to retrieve a rolling cargo pallet, clearly left there before the trip. This seems to have been planned. Teyla sighs.

"You kidding me?" John asks, pushing the pallet over towards the jumper. There are several moments of low grunting and intense swearing before he and Ronon heave the _beema_ onto it. Teyla stands to one side, arms folded, and steadfastly doesn't volunteer her help. "Sausages! Ribs!"

"Steak," Ronon adds fervently.

"We could make some of that marinade," John says, "that spicy one, like they had on Loaind?" He straightens and presses his knuckles against the small of his back, as if to press out an ache. Teyla would have more sympathy for him if he and Ronon did not commit similar acts of childishness at least once a week.

Ronon considers for a moment, then nods. "Need lots of _mirja_ root."

John turns to her and raises a questioning eyebrow. "Teyla?"

"You wish me to give up my supply of _mirja_ so that you two may feast?" Amusement, as ever, wars with exasperation.

"Hey, we'll invite other people!" John protests. "Besides, we have to skin the damn thing first." He looks back down at the _beema_. "Ronon, you think the doc will lend us her scalpels? They're pretty sharp."

Ronon shakes his head mournfully. "Not after last time."

"If I recall correctly," Teyla says tartly, "on that occasion, neither of you asked Jennifer's permission before raiding the infirmary."

"It was an emergency!" John protests. "Sort of."

Teyla looks steadily at him until he has the good grace to redden.

"Sharpened 'em before we put them back," Ronon mumbles. He and John start to push the pallet forward, not without a great deal of effort. The wheels of the pallet squeak, and one of the _beema_'s legs loll off the edge. Teyla follows behind them as they manoeuvre the beast out of the jumper bay and into the corridor beyond it. It has been a quiet few days, after all, and Teyla has long since acknowledged that her life on Atlantis has instilled in her a liking for frequent spectacle.

They are only several paces down the corridor—John saying that they should bring the animal to the mess kitchens for butchering; Ronon arguing for the construction of a fire pit out on one of the piers—when one of the transporter opens.

"Okay," Rodney says. He walks out of the transporter with his gaze firmly fixed on the tablet computer in his hand. "What is it? Banks said there was something I had to see—" He looks up only when he walks right into the pallet, and then lets out something close to a squeak. "What the hell is _that_? Some kind of alien _mammoth_? A _yak_? Sheppard, what the hell did you do this time?"

"Hey!" John says, looking affronted. "Why do you always assume _I_—"

"Oh, I don't know," Rodney says. He prods lightly at the tip of the _beema_'s tusk with the toe of his boot, as if trying to assure himself of its death. "Statistical probability? Teyla, what are these two idiots trying to do?"

Teyla's lower lip aches from where she has been biting it in an attempt not to laugh. "I believe," she says when she can speak, "that they are trying to organise what you refer to as a barbecue."

"Really?" Rodney's eyes light up and he tucks his computer under his arm. "Well, why didn't anyone say so?"

"You didn't give us a chance," Ronon says pointedly, but Rodney ignores him—the prospect of _beema_ steak, it seems, has caught his imagination.

"There's this dry rub I learnt from a guy in—well, where I learnt it is immaterial," he says, "but suffice to say that it's pretty much the perfect preparation for good barbecue."

"I believe," Teyla says lightly, schooling her face into the expression that none of her team has yet realised means 'I find you ridiculous, and yet for some reason am still fond of you', "that John and Ronon were planning to marinade it in _mirja_ root."

"Pfft," Rodney says, standing to one side while John and Ronon push the pallet into the transporter. "Can't possibly be anywhere near as good as this dry rub. It has _fifteen_ secret ingredients."

"Well," John says, waiting for Rodney and Teyla to join him in the transporter before keying in their destination. "I think this means we have to have a cook-off."

"Ah," Rodney says, gazing off into mid-distance, "the finest of North American culinary traditions." Then he pauses and frowns. "Though quesadillas are also up there."

"Does it matter?" Ronon says with great patience. "There's going to be steak."

For some reason, this is what finally breaks Teyla's resolve—and the door slides closed over her, a _beema_, three confused men, the sound of her laughter and Rodney's cry of "What? _What_?"


End file.
